No Place Like Home

I take the coffee from the barista and am immediately disappointed to discover it tastes just like regular Earth coffee. I had hoped for maybe something themed like the foam on top glowing bright red or the freeze-dried stuff the Smithsonian gift shop sold back at home. Nope. The coffee tastes exactly the same 140 million miles from Earth. Even the sleeve around the cup is the same, except for a tiny astronaut logo where a mermaid normally might have been. If I didn’t know any better, I would say it was coffee that had been pre-brewed back on Earth and kept in a giant Thermo flask.

The teen next to me holds out her phone and begins taking a video. “Hey queens and kings. Today we are arriving at Mars. First time. I try it, so you don’t have to. Remember ASMR, so The Red Planet can’t hear you.”

She then blows a kiss to the screen and grins at the joke. I remember when we thought Martians lived on the dark side of Mars. While that theory has long been disproven, it’s still common enough that some people still believe it, so I can’t tell if she is truly joking or not.

I lean against the window and look out. It wasn’t really red. At least not in the sense that the tour brochures had painted it or in the Instagram photos. It looked more like a burnt orange and brown. But I suppose The Burnt Orange and Brown Planet doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.

They have been playing music non-stop since we departed Earth, because beta passengers showed that listening to familiar tunes was more comforting than the vacuum of space. I wish the music was louder, then I wouldn’t have to hear the kid behind me ask for the seventeenth time if the gravity on Mars was more like a trampoline or if they would fly off the surface of the planet.

I have been imagining this exact moment for years—ever since the first launch went up in a column of fire and steel. The world had stopped for exactly ten minutes to watch it live. Then, the company had made their business everyone’s business with a fully holistic approach that had babies saying Mars before Mama. Influencer packages. Early adopters “exclusive access.” Discounts for the first 100 who couldn’t afford it. There was even a promotional documentary that all theaters were contractually obligated to play regardless of the genre of the actual film that came after it.

In the company’s own words, “Mars is the new playground. The final destination. It is where you go when you want more than Earth can offer.”

“Well you have to do it at least once,” I hear for the fifth time since booking my ticket. By this point, I’m not sure if they mean Mars, the attempt at normalcy, or the experience itself. I am not entirely sure I agree. I can’t laugh at them too much though. It was this same logic that led me to buying my own ticket. All of my friends had gone a month earlier and claimed it was life changing. Who doesn’t want their life to be changed?

They are now promoting the various opportunities and packages that we can invest in. Again. They are also reminding us of the slight delay that any messages or calls placed will have—unless we want to upgrade our cellular plan, of course. They advise us to wait a full minute before responding or saying anything new, but that the delay will hardly be noticeable and within a day or two we will be completely used to it. They then joke that some of the older folks actually seem to prefer taking calls on Mars. The flight attendant stops by my row and asks again if I understand that surface time is limited without proper special equipment, and if I want to attend the reality tv show live, I need to sign up for the lottery system.

The teen begins dramatically pointing at the window and gasping for her video. “Stop. It’s too much. I’m going to cry. It’s really too much.” I wait for the tears to fall. Five minutes later, I’m still waiting.

The shuttle lands and we are ushered to the entry point. Our guide is waiting, along with a list of more sign-up opportunities. We are each given a closed bag made of shiny foil. It’s labeled Official Martian Dust. We are told to wait to open it once we are back at Earth, as a little memento. Apparently one of the bags has a free return ticket for another trip hidden inside. They then offer advice on the best camera filter settings to get that perfect bright red tint for our photos. They also inform us that our space helmets will naturally fog until they settle when we are outside, but rest assured we can pay for them to edit the fog out of our photos. The teen next to me is already editing herself to be in a space suit for her selfie. They point towards the greenhouse that apparently is growing our lunch, but tell us that we cannot go inside due to risk of cross-contamination.

Once we reach the main observation dome, they offer us more coffee. Complimentary and locally grown, they claim. Part of the package. I take it because I have nothing else to do. It is the same cup and sleeve as the one earlier in the shuttle. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that it was the same exact kind of coffee as well.

I look out of one of the dome’s windows and into the vastness of space. Somewhere out there is a marble of green and blue and white, where people can walk out without suiting up for ten minutes first and the air smells of dust and rain. I know the next return shuttle will not arrive for at least a week. It is going to be a long week.

I take a sip of my coffee and take a deep breath. It doesn’t smell like anything.